


nymph; in thy orisons, may all my sins be remembered

by houseofskywalker



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, Past Relationship(s), Tragedy, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofskywalker/pseuds/houseofskywalker
Summary: Darth Vader visits the Senator of Naboo's final resting place.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Padmé's funeral music and re-watching her funeral all over again because I like sadness and tragedy and suffering. Just like Vader. So naturally, I had to write a fic. Forgive the purple prose and embellishments.

 

(this fic was inspired by this wonderful artwork done by [Erik Maell](http://erik-maell.deviantart.com/art/Darth-Vader-Visits-the-Tomb-of-Padme-284122409))

* * *

 He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone...

* * *

 The clouds of Naboo parted as a distinct TIE fighter zigzagged across the sky, in a display of showmanship for no one in particular—it was late in the evening, and the whole of Theed was asleep.

Except for him, thought Darth Vader, as he smoothly slid across the landing pad of the docking bay. He never slept. He didn’t have that luxury. Every second of his existence was in a bid to extend that very existence. Every bodily function was premeditated: he had to force himself to take one artificial breath after another, push his ribcage out with sheer willpower, and manipulate the trajectory of his blood flow. Life for him should be impossible. Yet, here he was.

But impossibility was never out of reach, these days. Vader had hunted down the last of the puny Jedi—or so he believed. That rogue, unskilled Padawan and his equally talentless apprentice had eluded him, the _Empire,_ once again with nothing but luck. Those rag-tag rebels had lived up to their names: the Ghost Crew. Invisible.

But even the wispiest of ghosts would be caught and even the sturdiest of rebellions would be _crushed_ under his fist.

Theed was still as beautiful as he remembered. Even in night’s slumber, lights dotted the residential areas, and a gentle breeze swept through the open windows and doors of the old temples, creating a whistle that almost sounded like … Vader shook his head slightly, and walked across the city plaza in an army march consisting of only himself, almost in protest. Familiar smells returned: the scent of mineral-rich water hitting the rocks by the waterfall, the fragrance of blooming lotuses … He gritted his teeth.

( _His life support made him this walking impossibility, mend his burnt skin, but could not mend his past, his memories._ )

Vader had not stepped foot on this planet in fifteen years. It was an unspoken pact between him and his Master: not Tatooine, not Naboo. He would gladly drift among the rubble of the Unknown Regions if ordered. But Vader saw red at the sheer mention of the Outer Rim. If anyone dared to mention the “sultry summers of Naboo” in his vicinity, they would not survive it. _How fitting then_ , he thought, with bitter realisation, _that every second on this nirvana brings me closer to my own doom?_

His lips pulled into the comforting, familiar angles of a hooked scowl as he carefully pried open the hedge leading into the Royal Palace Gardens. One whole park, dedicated to one queen, from ages past. A stain—no, a blush, a beautiful blush on the public’s consciousness. The lively flutter of butterflies and enthusiastic singing of exotic birds. A still creek. A quiet waterfall.

He hated it all. They reminded him of lazy, drawling summers; when life saturated the air he inhaled, and not the ash of his regrets. The park was ugly in a way Theed could never be: its beauty was carefully constructed, picked out by architects with an eye for detail and a biography of a dead Senator and beloved Queen on hand. It was fake, it was not real.

( _It could never be real._ )

The grass crackled as Vader walked through the park. He ignored the living beings, his eyes set on the domed mausoleum as it rose up over the crowns of the blue-leaved trees. The entrance was inset with a halo of white lilies and hewn out of kaleidoscopic stone that caught the skewed reflection of his helmet, like a distorting mirror. A bitter reminder—he wasn’t welcome here …

He _made_ himself welcome.

Vader Force-pushed the door, with little effort.

He stepped through the archway. The door fell close, and all sounds fell away. For a split second, Vader was reminded of the silence of space; the silence in the tomb was just as oppressing, perhaps even more so, with none of the comforting whirrs of his TIE fighter. It reminded him of his own breathing pod back on his own ship. He wondered if Padmé would have approved. Vader could hardly remember much of her likes and dislikes; her angelic visage was all he could recall. In his memories, her lips moved but the words said were lost forever.

_(“Love has_

_blinded you.”)_

The corridor he found himself in was one of cold opulence. The walls were made of granite with hidden jewels embedded within it, giving the space a rustic atmosphere and were graced with golden plaques, citing many of the late stateswoman’s accomplishments. Vader’s cloak billowed behind him in the non-existent wind as he advanced through the passageway, following the splinter of light at the end of his journey. 

Vader entered the shrine. There was a huge slab of black marble laid out, hardly touched by dust or age, and shone brilliantly like the day it was first made. Red flowers dotted the room, as if marking the spot where Padmé rested. Vader had the sudden urge to sling the stone off. An image seeped through his mind: Padmé’s body still warm and blushing against his chest armour as he hugged her, his shoulders shaking. He professed his undying love for his dying (dead) wife and she … she …

_Padmé, Padmé, Padmé._

She smiled. A soft hand against the sharp edges of his mask. Padmé’s eyes glittered with tears and happiness.

“There’s still good in him,” she told Vader. “I believe it. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

( _“Please_

_ I can’t live _

_without her.”_ )

His surroundings blurred and the next moment, Vader found himself on his knees, on the floor. No, not the floor; the ground beneath him was soft and wet—through his visors, he spied the grassland of the lake county that contained his most treasured memories. Before him stood Padmé, decked in her dress of water. Her hand drifted above his head. “Join me, Anakin.”

“Please _stay_ ,” begged Vader. “Don’t leave me again. Don’t _ever_ leave me.”

“But I’m ahead, I’m _far_ ahead, love; and one day, you’ll have to catch up.” She folded her knees to join him and looked him in the eye—he faintly registered that that was impossible, he was far too tall—and placed her hands on his shoulders.  “Are you alive? Truly?”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.” His hands twitched at his sides. “Make me feel alive, Padmé.”

She smiled sadly but didn’t answer. Vader tentatively raised his arms, his gloved fingers reaching out for her, to hold her face. He frowned as he touched her cheek. He was expecting to feel her soft skin, but instead something hard and … ribbed chafed against his fingers. “What …”

Vader blinked. And wished he hadn’t.

His hands were palming the mosaic, the one he’d deliberately avoided as he walked in. Her effigy. The figure from his dreams—nightmares—and endless visions. The one he saw behind his eyelids. He balled his fists.

She left him again.

Vader rested his forehead against the glass to recover his bearings. For now, in this moment, he was neither Vader nor Anakin (once he stepped out, that would change—he’d don the darkness as his shield and force himself to remember his pain in each step). Only a nameless being.

A husband mourning his wife.

* * *

 At his head a grass-green turf,

  At his heels a stone.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably get some angry Vader stans in my inbox in one ... two ... three ... 
> 
> Anyway, beginning and end quotes and chapter title all come from Hamlet by Shakespeare. Because Padmé is the Ophelia to Vader's Hamlet and no one can convince me otherwise.


End file.
